


Cut You Up Like You Did Me

by minecraftvillagernoise



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy Hargrove Tries to Be a Better Person, Billy and Steve dish it out I guess, Blood, But it’s like one sentence, Can you tell how bad I am at tagging?, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to friends... unless?, I'm Bad At Tagging, Im LAUGHING I suck at tagging, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Like only a bit I swear, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Relationship, Suddenly I forget what I wrote, dustins only there a bit though um, how to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:07:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24035599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minecraftvillagernoise/pseuds/minecraftvillagernoise
Summary: A car door slams, waking Steve from his short lived nap. It's dark outside the arcade, even though a quick glance to his watch shows it's barely five-thirty. Another half hour, then, until Dustin comes out. Steve turns his head to investigate, the tacky neon lighting of the place makes Billy's car look almost green instead of it's usual shiny blue. Because that's who slammed their car door. Billy Hargrove, the self-proclaimed bane of Steve's existence.-So like Billy and Steve,,,, TALK oh my god imagine.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 5
Kudos: 94





	Cut You Up Like You Did Me

**Author's Note:**

> This has literally been in my notes for like,, a MONTH- completely forgot about it because I was gonna do more with it but then I was like “what tf is writing?” And just kept making MORE and MORE WIPs oh my god there’s like NINE and they’re NOT below 2k words I need to get it together and finish works before I start new ones
> 
> ANYWAYS.
> 
> And yes, I DID think it was a good idea to save tagging and reading over it until 3 am. Move along.
> 
> Enjoy?? Go drink some water. :)

A car door slams, waking Steve from his short lived nap. It's dark outside the arcade, even though a quick glance to his watch shows it's barely five-thirty. Another half hour, then, until Dustin comes out. Steve turns his head to investigate, the tacky neon lighting of the place makes Billy's car look almost green instead of it's usual shiny blue. Because that's who slammed their car door. Billy Hargrove, the self-proclaimed bane of Steve's existence.

Billy stands, then sticks a cigarette between his lips. He fiddles with the lighter until it flames, illuminating his face and making his earring glint, then stuffs it back into what Steve imagines would be his pocket, his view obstructed by Billy's Camaro.

Billy turns in his direction, and it's only then that Steve remembers to avert his eyes. He can still see Billy out of the corner of his eye, and hears the abrasive crunch of gravel under his heavy boots as he makes his way over to Steve. He's still a bit sleepy, and he only remembers that he should maybe lock the doors after Billy's already a few feet from his car.

His knuckles rap against the window when he gets close enough, and Steve's still a little out of it, so he cranks it down. One would think fighting monsters would build a bit more self preservation. Obviously not.

"King Steve." He says, mocking, his cigarette hanging from his plump lips in a way that, Steve knows, makes girl's chests flutter. He moves to stand directly in front of the open window of Steve's beamer, and Steve must be really tired, because he finds that he isn't all that afraid.

"I wanna have a talk with you, Harrington." Billy drawls, frowning, he rests a hand on the top of Steve's car. He crouches down, face to face with Steve, hovers there, then exhales smoke into the car. It was the most they've interacted in months.

"Out." He says, smacks the car harshly, and stands back, waiting. Steve yawns, tired from lack of sleep the night before, which he spent trying and failing to write an essay. He knows he didn't do well on it, doesn't really care. Billy's still standing there, smoking on his cigarette like it's all he knows, and Steve's still a little drowsy, because he actually gets out of the car.

Billy's brow twitches upwards, surprised, like he didn't actually expect Steve to get out, but is quick to draw it back down as he schools his expression. Billy falls back on the door with a thud as soon as Steve closes it, eyeing the pavement like it's the most interesting thing in the world, frowning like it's personally offended him or something.

"So?" Steve asks, because he's tired, because he's an idiot. Tired of his life, tired of Billy's bullshit, tired of his own.

Billy hums, deep in thought, and Steve watches a curl above his forehead sweep back and forth in the evening breeze. Billy's eyebrows furrow and his jaw sets, and he's angry, and Steve almost becomes worried for him, almost, when he spots Billy gripping his cigarette so hard it looks like it might snap.

"I wanted to... apologize." Billy grits out, like the words are physically tearing at his throat when they come up, and Steve's mind comes to a screeching halt.

It was wrong, seeing Billy Hargrove seem _sincere_. Everything the guy does is a goddamn facade, an act made to appease an audience which Steve doesn't understand, not anymore. Steve noticed it practically the first week he rolled into town. Billy Hargrove isn't _sincere_ , and he doesn't apologize. So this situation doesn't make any sense.

"For?" Steve asks, trying his best to keep his voice from wavering with uncertainty. This is all wrong. Billy puts the cigarette back in his mouth, and for a minute, it's silent. For a minute, Steve thinks Billy's going to drop it, reveal he didn't actually want to apologize for anything.

For a minute, Steve finds he can't stop wondering when he started noticing all those trivial things about Billy. When he started noticing how Billy always wore his brown boots on Tuesdays and his black ones on Thursdays. When he started noticing how Billy spends his lunch out in the dugouts behind the school, because any sane person could only stand so much of Tommy and Carol. When he started noticing how every time Mrs Click gave out their graded essays Billy would shove his into the trash bin next to his desk without even looking at it. When he was leaving class one day and saw Billy's paper in the bin, a startling ninety-five written across the top. When he remembered he'd gotten a sixty-seven. When he started noticing scattered yellowing bruises on Billy's broad shoulders in the showers after practice.

"For that night." Billy says finally. His face turns away from Steve and he smokes his cigarette like he can't find it in himself to do anything else. Billy's jaw still sits tight on his face, and he sharply inhales before tearing the cigarette out of his mouth and turning back to look at Steve.

"I'm sorry," he says quickly, and it's so unexpected, so _wrong_ , that Steve almost punches first, "you know that, right?" He asks, voice gruff, a bit fraught, and no, Steve didn't, _doesn't_. However, he nods, dumbly, because he's tired, and Billy looks almost _frantic_. It's wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

"There was a lot of shit going on," Billy says, backtracks, "and you were _there_ ," he's speaking in sentence fragments now, Steve notices, "and Sinclair—" he breathes, "and I shouldn't have— I'm not—" his gaze darts away from Steve's face, then comes back full force, "I had my reasons, you know I did."

Steve nods, although he doesn't mean it. He nods, because he can't do anything else, and Billy's still acting like he ran over someone's dog or something. 

"Do you realize how fucking shady that was?" Billy asks, and before Steve has a chance to formulate his own answer, Billy continues talking.

"My fourteen year old step-sister's gone all day, and when I find her she's in some crack house, in the middle of nowhere, with a bunch of pre-pubescent boys, and _you_." He says, and Steve almost starts to feel a little sympathy, almost, because when he puts it like _that_... Before Steve gets the chance to open his mouth, probably to say something stupid, something he'd regret, Billy continues talking like he has to. Like he knows if he doesn't say it now, he'll never say it at all.

"I know," he pauses, sticks a hand in his pocket harshly, looks at the uneven pavement beneath his feet, "I know it's not an excuse, Harrington, for what I did." _Damn right it isn't_. "It was just—" Billy breathes, long and deep, "I'm supposed to keep watch on her, and I didn't. I—" He exhales, his eyebrows rung together tightly, "I was supposed to find her, and I freaked, and you just— you were in my way." Billy's eyes meet his, a determined look in his eyes, "But I shouldn't have hurt you and I'm sorry."

Hearing Billy Hargrove apologize once is... unnatural. Hearing Billy apologize twice? It's fundamentally wrong, it's _worrying_ , because Billy Hargrove doesn't apologize. Billy Hargrove doesn't feel regret or guilt, he doesn't feel remorse. So what the fuck is he saying?

"I know you're still pissed at me," Billy says, any of whatever Steve might have been so brave as to call _sincerity_ gone from his voice, _and he's right, he is still pissed_ , "and you've got every right to be." _Damn right he does_.

"So let's just make this quick, because I'm not done." Billy says, dropping his cigarette to the ground, stomping on it with his boot. He steps back, arms spreading wide. And if Steve wasn't confused before, he definitely was now.

"What—"

"Just hit me, Harrington, I know you're itching for it." Billy says, his voice cruel and abrasive, and for a moment, Steve wants to know what his voice really sounds like. But Billy's cold blue eyes are staring up at Steve, and _he's right_. Steve wanted to try for a round two the second he got back to school, but he didn't. Because Nancy was there, because he's trying to be better. Because he's trying to not be bullshit anymore.

"I'm waiting, King Steve." Billy says, his mouth curling into a cruel imitation of a smile, and it's obviously bait, but Steve falls for it anyways, he always does. Wants to wipe that smug smirk right off Billy's smug face—

So he does.

His fist makes contact with Billy's jaw, sending Hargrove staggering a few steps back, doubled over with a hand clutching his jaw. But he doesn't look mad, Steve notices, he looks calmer than he did a minute ago. Steve doesn't really understand what that means. Doesn't know if he wants to. 

Billy pops his mouth open, moves his jaw around, assessing the damage, and smiles up at Steve, "I forgot," he says, "that for a pretty boy you still pack a damn good punch."

Billy straightens out, and he still looks like a damn feral beast or something, because his eyes are wild and he's smiling, all teeth. But he's not... angry. Not like Steve thought he would be.

"Come on, Harrington, I know you wanna hit me again." He says, like this is solely for Steve's benefit of letting his feelings out or something.

"I think I'll pass." Steve says, because he's still tired, and now his fist aches.

"Just one more," Billy says, "however many you want until we're even."

They weren't ever going to be _even_. Steve wouldn't— likely _couldn't_ — beat Billy within an inch of his life. But Billy's arms were spread wide again, and he was breathing slowly, waiting. His eyes were hooded, like maybe he was just as tired as Steve, but for different reasons. The side of his jaw was red and irritated, and Steve wants to _lick_ —

His fist collided with the side of Billy's nose before he really knew what he was doing, sending Billy reeling. He looked as surprised as Steve felt, like he didn't expect Steve to actually do it. Which, was understandable, but fuck him. Fuck him, fuck his unbuttoned shirt in early December, fuck his stupid jaw, fuck this night, fuck Steve's stupid thoughts, fuck Steve's life.

Billy groans, hand covering his nose, and Steve remembers he'd just punched the guy.

"Shit, man, are you ok?" Steve asks, feeling unjustifiably guilty, like Billy didn't just literally ask for it.

He grunts in response, eyes closed. He pulls his hand away from his face, and— and there's blood. It looks almost black in the darkness, Billy looks at it smudged on his palm and laughs darkly.

"Damn, Harrington, you're full of surprises, aren't you?" He says, laughs harshly, like it doesn't look like he just got hit in the face with a miniature paintball. Billy wipes his nose with his already bloody hand, only serving to streak the dark mess across his upper lip. He pulls his hand back, looks down at his shirt, considering, before he wipes his hand on Steve's car, leaving a dark smear in its wake.

"Sorry." Billy mumbles, not sounding sorry at all. He sniffs, and it's then that Steve realizes his nose isn't done bleeding.

"Are you ok?" Steve asks again, wary, watching as Billy has the audacity to _shrug_ , bringing his bloodied hand to his nose again.

And Steve's still tired, he must be, because he walks over to the trunk of his car, opening the lid. Billy doesn't ask what he's doing, and for that, Steve's grateful, because he doesn't actually have an excuse for the answer. He finds his gym bag, digs around until he finds it: a ratty old t-shirt he keeps "just in case." Steve has to actively work to convince himself this was a "just in case" situation. It isn't. But he grabs it anyways, shoves his bag back into the corner of the trunk and closes it with a bit more force than necessary, because he's tired, and he'd just punched Billy Hargrove twice. And he hadn't done a damn thing about it, either.

"Here." Steve says, tossing the shirt at Billy when he reaches him. He catches it, surprise evident in the way his eyebrows raise and his mouth opens slightly. He looks at Steve, then the shirt, then Steve again, and Steve's really starting to regret this.

"For your face." He clarifies, his tone a bit sassier than he would've allowed under regular circumstances, but Billy just smiles wickedly.

Steve can almost _hear_ the teasing 'Thanks, Harrington, didn't think you cared' that must have been on the tip of Billy's tongue, but Billy simply starts wiping at his face with Steve's shirt. He'd gotten it at some stupid folk festival that was in town for the week, Nancy had thought it'd be fun, and he listened to Nancy back then. The music was shit, in Steve's opinion, and they didn't have face-painting. So, all in all, Steve didn't exactly have a good time. So he was more than glad to get rid of a shirt that brought him memories of bluegrass and no Spider-Man face-paint and Nancy. It's about time he moved on anyways, right?

Billy pulled back the bloodied shirt, only a bit of dried blood still in his nose, and he studies it.

"How was the," he spread it wide, reading, "Hawkins Folk Festival of 1983?" He finished, a smirk widening on his face.

"The music was shit," Steve says, because it totally was, "Nancy wanted to do it."

Billy's animalistic smirk shrinks a bit, and Steve doesn't know if it's because he didn't like bluegrass or if it's because he mentioned Nancy or... he should really stop trying to analyze Billy's facial expressions when he can't even analyze a basic essay prompt.

Billy takes a corner of the shirt and wipes at his nose one more time before sheepishly holding it out to Steve. Which, gross.

"Uh, no thanks, man," Steve says, nose scrunching up like he's a little kid, because he's not touching Billy's bodily fluid, thank you very much, "you can keep it."

And Billy's face does this thing- and Steve wants to call it a smile but he knows it isn't, because Billy Hargrove doesn't smile. He doesn't say anything, but he puts Steve's ruined shirt on top of Steve's car, and whatever the hell was on Billy's face, he still won't call it a smile, is gone when he faces Steve again.

Billy opens his mouth to speak, nothing comes out, and it closes with an audible click. He grumbles something to himself that Steve can't decipher before he starts digging in his pockets, sticking a new cigarette in his mouth. He looks to Steve, as if offering, but Steve shakes his head. Nancy didn't like it when he smoked. Not that it matters much anymore, what Nancy thought of him, but the point still stands.

Billy lights his cigarette, taking a deep breath of it. He takes it out of his mouth, presses the hand into his forehead, as if nursing a headache, and sighs.

"I know you're not my biggest fan," Billy says, and it's such an obvious statement that Steve almost laughs at it's absurdity, "and we're not exactly buddy-buddy, but-"

Billy clears his throat, cutting himself off. then turns to look at Steve's ruined shirt on the top of the Beamer. He swallows, face hardening, turning to look at Steve like a man on a mission.

"But I have to ask," Billy finally says, the determination in his gaze wavering slightly, he sticks the cigarette back in his mouth, "the fuck was going on that night?"

"What do you mean?" Steve asks, and his voice sounds scared even in his own ears, which, fuck. Billy looks at him, and Steve's left praying to some God above that he's asking about the fight instead of the... aliens? Do otherworldly beasts count as aliens?

"Yeah," Billy says slowly, his eyes narrowing. He sounds wholly unconvinced and Steve's stomach drops, "Something tells me you already know what I mean, Harrington." 

And of course he would ask that question, the one question Steve _legally_ can't answer.

"I can't," Steve forces himself to say, because it's true, "legal reasons and shit." He's unused to being honest, and he can hear the nagging thoughts of _take it back, take it back, take it back,_ but Billy only lets out an empty laugh. It reminds Steve vaguely of his laugh the night at the Byer's, after Steve had punched him. Crazed and vacant, unnaturally inhuman, especially coming from a person as emotionally driven as Billy.

His laughter, if Steve were to even call it that, dies, and he looks back at Steve, eyes gone cold and jaw back to being clenched, and his jaw looks so _tight_ , everything about him is so _tight_. Steve, oddly enough, feels a pull to put his hand there, on Billy's jaw, where he punched him, if only to make it seem less tight all the time. He clenches his hands at his side instead, to keep them from doing something stupid.

"That's the biggest load of shit I've ever heard, Harrington." Billy says slowly, voice low, and theres vaguely a bit of that threatening voice he does before he strikes.

_No one tells me what to do._

The soft green glow of the arcade only serves to deepen the lines on Billy's frowning face, his curls moving slightly in the night breeze. Billy narrows his eyes, before taking the cigarette out of his mouth, flicking some ash off the end.

"Try again, Steve." Billy says, voice seemingly uncaring, but Steve knows he's trying to keep his cool, because Steve notices things about Billy Hargrove. Like his blue eyes, piercing, even in the darkness of the oncoming winter. Like the way he stacks sheets of his graded papers in class neatly, only to toss them into the garbage bin first chance he gets.

In all honesty, Steve never expected to hear his name leave Billy's mouth, so he's only a little ashamed as he feels his heartbeat quicken. He's grown accustomed to hallway taunts of 'Harrington' or even 'King Steve' if Billy was feeling a bit spicier than usual, rarely the haunting 'Pretty Boy' that had kept him up at night for a few days after it happened. Until that night at the Byers, the night Billy was asking about.

"What do you know?" Steve asks, avoiding the question, and he must be tired, because he almost feels guilty about it.

"Nothing," Billy bites out, his eyes holding Steve's in an intense gaze, "Maxine won't tell me shit. The shitbird says I wouldn't understand."

"Shes right," Steve forces himself to say, because it's true, and he's trying harder to be honest, "you wouldn't." He wouldn't understand, Max is right about that. If Steve did cave and tell the truth, Billy might beat him up anyways, despite the apology. He'd probably think Steve was spewing bullshit, that Steve was bullshit. Steve's trying harder not to seem like bullshit.

"Try me." Billy squares his shoulders, and Steve is so, so tired.

"I already said-" Steve starts, trying to placate Billy before he loses his cool, but Billy's suddenly closer, up in his space. He slams a hand on the roof of Steve's car, narrowly missing the shirt, the loud noise making Steve jump.

"I know what you said," Billy says, each word grit through his teeth, "you said legal reasons. You gonna explain that?"

His hand, the one that slammed on Steve's car, is suddenly pulling at the collar of Steve's shirt. Billy brings the cigarette to his lips one last time before he just throws it across the parking lot without sparing it a second glance.

"You said legal reasons," Billy repeats, his voice low and deep, exhaling smoke hot and heavy across Steve's face, the coppery smell of blood still potent, "the fuck did you get my sister involved in, Harrington?"

Billy looks at him, silent, searching, maybe a bit desperate. The angry lines of his face look almost alien in the cheesy neon green lighting. The grip on his shirt tightens, and Steve's suddenly way more awake than he was a minute ago.

"I've kicked your ass before, Harrington, so don't think for a second I won't do it again." Billy says, and Steve almost, _almost_ believes him. He almost believes that the anger on Billy's face is anything other than fear, anything other than worry. He almost believes Billy wouldn't have a problem tearing him a new one, even after that... apology? But he doesn't. 

"Hey, man," Steve starts, his hands moving to cover Billy's hand clutched in his shirt with his own. Billy's brow furrows when Steve's hands make contact, and he squints his eyes at Steve like he's crazy for not being scared of him, for touching him.

"I get, ok?" Steve says, even though he _doesn't_ , not one bit, "It's fucked up, but I don't want to get you involved."

"I'm already _involved_ ," Billy seethes, getting impossibly closer as he does, and Steve notices there's still a bit of dried blood on the bridge of his nose, "I got fucking roofied in Jonathan fucking Byers house, which was covered— _floor to ceiling_ — in weird ass drawings, and I'm eighty percent sure I saw a dismembered dog in their kitchen, Harrington, I think I'm pretty _involved_ in whatever the hell is going on."

Steve takes one hand off of where it's holding Billy's, and presses back against his chest to try and create distance between them. Steve can't think with Billy being this close, with his curls and his earring and his exposed chest and the dried blood left on his nose.

"Billy-" He starts, surprising himself when he utters Billy's name and not Hargrove, but he doesn't budge no matter how hard Steve presses his hand against Billy's chest. He does, however, loosen his grip on Steve's shirt, eyes skirting to Steve's hand on his chest, then back up to Steve.

"I've been pretty good at keeping the shit I saw to myself," Billy says, slowly, the fire in his eyes extinguishing a bit, and his fist is hot, burning, on Steve's chest, "I haven't ratted out Byers for some sort of fucking animal cruelty, and I haven't told the school that King Steve's recipe for a good time is hanging with twelve year olds." 

Before Steve can even open his mouth, Billy speaks.

"I know you're not some weirdo who's into kids, Harrington," he says, his voice going impossibly soft, it was all _wrong_ , "really, I do," he smooths out the hand on Steve's chest, the motion uncharacteristically tender, _wrong_ , "so prove me right."

"Tell me why they were there," Billy continues, his thumb rubbing back and forth on Steve's chest where Steve's still holding his hand in place, and he feels his heart kick beneath his ribs, hopes Billy doesn't feel it, "tell me what was going on." Billy finishes, and Steve feels stupid, because he almost blurts out everything, because he almost leans forward and... and does what? Any closer and he might as well be kissing him. The idea doesn't seem as repulsive as Steve hoped it would be.

Which is a problem.

The door to the arcade opens, the sound harsh in the quiet of the night, and Steve retracts his hands from Billy's skin like the contact burnt. Because it practically did, Billy runs hot. He sighs, his hand stays on Steve's chest, hot and heavy, it feels like a brand.

"Billy? What the hell?" Max's voice calls out, walking in their direction, and Billy rolls his eyes, still not turning to look at her. He drums his fingers across Steve's chest, then drops his hands to his sides. He gives Steve this look- and Steve's never been good with nonverbal communication, so he doesn't have an idea of what it means.

"Get in the car, Maxine." Billy says, turning to face her, the exasperation in his voice clear as day. Max's gaze travels to Steve, looking about as confused as he would expect, and she opens her mouth to speak, but Billy starts before she can make a sound.

"I'm not doing anything, get in the car." He repeats, Max looks unimpressed.

"Was just bumming a smoke." Billy lies, then gives Max a _look_ , which she must understand more than Steve because she rolls her eyes and, surprisingly, walks to Billy's car. Billy turns back to him, silent, searching, like he's waiting for Steve to say something, and leans back comfortably against Steve's car. The night is silent, the crickets having already turned in for the season, the only sound breaking through being the faint electronic noises coming from inside the arcade. Steve doesn't know what to say, though, his mind a hodgepodge of confused thoughts and feelings he can't name, and the silence was almost becoming unbearable.

Billy sighs, his gaze dropping to the ground in front of him.

"Maybe you can tell me some other time, Harrington." Billy says, leaning off Steve's Beamer and stepping forward. He's close enough that Steve can feel the ghosting warmth of Billy's body, can see the goosebumps that rake across Billy's exposed chest because he's still wearing an unbuttoned shirt in early December, and Steve _wants_. It's not exactly a new development, wanting Billy, but one that Steve didn't realize existed, and definitely one he didn't spend a lot of time thinking about, not if he could help it.

Billy raises a hand, and Steve must still be really tired, really out of it, because the thought that Billy might hit him doesn't even cross his mind until well after his hand settles, cupping Steve's cheek with a softness he didn't know Billy was capable of before tonight, before he pressed his hand against Steve's chest so _tenderly_. And Steve must be really tired, because he finds himself leaning into the pressure of Billy's hand, because it's early December, and his hand is warm and comforting in ways it shouldn't be. Billy exhales, and Steve can see his breath condensate to a small cloud in the cold Indiana night outside of the arcade. And Steve must be really tired, because he wants to chase it with his mouth, because he wants to trace his fingers along Billy's collarbone, because he wants to press his lips to Billy's palm, Billy's cheek, Billy's neck. 

Billy's thumb brushes across his cheekbone once, and Steve must be really tired, because he almost admits to himself that likes it. Billy's gaze is cold, calculating, and there's a determined look in his eye that Steve doesn't particularly like. His warm breath pools across Steve's face from the proximity, and Steve's really tired, because he lets his eyes fall closed, relishing in Billy's warmth.

"I'll get you to tell me," Billy says, and his warm hand is an addicting entity against Steve’s wind bitten cheeks, "pretty boys always crack one way or another." He laughs, his words teasing, and if Steve hadn't opened his eyes then he would've thought he was actually being made fun of. But Billy simply smiles at him, and it's _wrong_ , because it's not shark-like or cruel or any of the other sorts of not-smiles Steve's seen him wear. It was teasing and a bit condescending, sure, but not a smile with malice, and it's all _wrong_. His hand moves off of Steve's cheek, only to softly smack the side of Steve's face once, twice, three times. 

"I'll see you around, amigo." Billy says, that smile softening on his face, and it looks so genuine and it's _wrong_. He pats a hand on Steve's shoulder, his hand's warmth bleeding through the fabric of Steve's jacket despite barely being there for more than a second. Billy then turns on his heel and grabs Steve's bloodied shirt off the roof of Steve's Beamer, saunters back to the Camaro to Max, who's probably upset at having to wait. And Steve must be really tired, because he kind of wanted Billy to kiss him.

He's just tired, is all. Just tired.

It's not until Billy gets his car door open that Steve remembers to respond.

"See you," he calls, his hand raising in a pathetic half-wave, "amigo." He adds, and Billy looks up at him from across the parking lot. He remains silent, holding Steve's gaze before nodding once. Steve can hear Max say something from inside the car, most likely a complaint, to which Billy grumbles something of his own before slamming the car door.

"Steve!" Dustin shouts, his voice echoing in the quiet night. The door to the arcade shuts loudly behind him, and he briskly makes his way over to Steve. 

"Guess what?" He says proudly, and Steve only then remembers that it's early December, and it's freezing, so he opens the door to his Beamer and gets inside. As soon as he sticks the key in the ignition and turns, Dustin continues.

"I beat the high score on Frogger!" He says, taking a seat inside the car, "Isn't that awesome?" He asks, that childlike excitement Steve was so fond of bleeding into his voice.

"Awesome?" Steve says, falling easily back into their routine, "That's the coolest thing I've heard all week!"

"I know, right? Just wait until Mike hears about this."

"Totally," Steve says, "that kid needs to know his place."

"I know, right?" Dustin yells as he turns the heat on high, "He's always telling me that Frogger is inferior to Tetris! Tetris! He's goddamn delusional!"

The camaro's engine roars to life from across the parking lot, and Steve catches his head turning to it before remembering Dustin.

"Yeah, yeah, let's get you home." He says, not entirely paying attention to his own voice, and Dustin leans past Steve to watch the Camaro peel out of the parking lot. He sits back in his seat, and, after a moment, as if a switch were flipped, starts fussing.

"Steve, oh my god! Are you ok? Was that asshole bothering you? Did he threaten you?"

"No, he didn't threaten me." Steve says, because he hadn't, not really, "We we're just talking."

"Talking?!" Dustin screams, "You're knuckles are bruised!"

Oh, yeah, they were.

"Yeah," Steve says, feeling a little stupid, "he's not that bad."

"Not that bad?! Steve, he almost killed you!"

"I think," Steve starts, trying to remember what exactly he thought, "I think were good now?" He says, and it sounds pathetically like a question even in his own ears, and Dustin's eyes almost bug out of his head. He sputters, like Steve left him speechless, which he probably did, before he takes a deep breath.

"You are so fucked." Dustin says, and he's right.

"Language." Steve says out of habit, sticking the gear into drive, and he's so fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> So that happened. I don’t even know so, uh, yeah I don’t know. Have a good rest of your day whatever time it is.
> 
> I do NOT know what I’m doing and it shows lol


End file.
